


Concatenation

by NonchalantDanger



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: BAMF Hanzo, BAMF Jesse McCree, Came from bluandorange tumblr AU ask, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post "Dragons" short but pre-McCree arrives at Gibraltar, Slow Burn, Unbeta'd, all the grammar mistakes are mine, mentions of torture and brainwashing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-03-26 19:59:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13864950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NonchalantDanger/pseuds/NonchalantDanger
Summary: Red grins at Dragon, knowing that with the blood on his teeth and the crimson skull in his right eye he must look nightmarish, but Dragon is unflinching. The air around them crackles with cerulean energy as the sword in his grip drips with gore."Are you ready to leave?"Red chuckles darkly. "If it's all the same to you, darlin', I want to make sure that none of THEM," he motions to the door that separates them from the surviving Talon operatives, "EVER do."A wolfish smile from the shorter man lights something in Red, like the reverb of thunder after lightning. Dragon lifts his pilfered blade, and there catches a glimpse of the twining, ethereal beasts that respond to his partner's every whim."Consider it done."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bluandorange](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluandorange/gifts).



> This came from a AU McHanzo idea ask from bluandorange. I asked if I could assimilate the idea, and they graciously told me to go forth and write it.

He’s awake at the sound of a bootstep echoing down the hallway. He doesn’t dare move; the injections that the _good_ _doctor_ and her team pumped into his body in the last conditioning session make his muscles feel like _they are on fire_ , and that’s if he breathes as shallowly as he can, and remains curled in his usual place on the floor. His mind feels fogged over, like a London street in the winter. The analogy surprises him; he doesn’t remember how he _knows_ that a street in London would be fogged. He doesn’t remember ever being there. He doesn’t remember much.

 

The boosteps crescendo, and he can hear the rhythmic _schink, schink, schink_ of chains being dragged in time with the guards’ strides. Then the sound stops at its loudest. He slits open one of his eyes just in time to see a shadow obscure the sliver of light under the cell door.

 

It clangs open, the sound reverberating painfully through his head. He can’t suppress his wince at the sudden brightness either, and one of the guards -- Patterson, he thinks -- cackles cruelly.

 

“Aw, does a little sunlight hurt, Deadeye?”

 

 _Deadeye_. They’ve called him that ever since he got here. It’s replaced his name since he can’t remember it -- _they don’t want him to remember it_ \-- and it irritates something deep in his subconscious.

 

He doesn’t respond. Gets a half-hearted kick in the ribs for it. A usual day at the office, then.

 

There’s a sickening thud and a choked-off groan, and the gunslinger realizes that it was a body that they were dragging. He coughs as another boot strikes into his stomach, eyes flying open with the pain. He sees the prone figure, a slumped form of too-pale skin, lithe muscle, and dark hair.  

 

“You get a roommate for a while, gunslinger. Try not to hurt each other too bad. Dr. O’Deorain wouldn’t like that.”

 

Deadeye shudders, his response Pavlovian at the sound of her name. Another vicious chuckle, and then the door slams shut. The ache in his chest isn’t just a side effect of the drugs, in that moment. Forcing himself upright with his single arm, he pushes to lean against the wall. It’s concrete, chilled and rough to the touch, but it’s stable with a consistency that has comforted him when nausea and pain have proven difficult to overcome.

 

His new cellmate isn’t moving. Deadeye makes himself comfortable, content to observe until the new prisoner wakes up. If he wakes up.

 

Deadeye’s surprised by how healthy the other man looks, his arms, shoulders, and torso carved with lean muscle. Inky dark hair, greasy with grime and sweat, obscures all but an unkempt beard and a lax mouth, lips parted as the unconscious man gasps for air. At first glance, it looks as if his whole left arm is a mass of blue and black bruises from his wrist to the slope of his pectoral, but then Deadeye’s eyes re-adjust to the dimmer light, and he sees that it is, quite possibly, the most intricate and formidable tattoo he’s ever seen. _He supposes that’s not saying much since he can’t remember any others_. Another almost identical design peeks out from underneath the medical shorts that the man wears.

 

 _Twin dragons_ . _Huh_.

 

Deadeye is just about to shift closer, to brush a curtain of dark hair out of the prone man’s face when he coughs raggedly, limbs scrabbling weakly against the floor. Deadeye stills, watching for signs of aggression.

 

None come, as all that his new cellmate is able to manage is to lift to a crawl, dragging his way to the opposite side of the room. He slumps against it, much like Deadeye has done before, and does now, his hair draping down over his features until his chin lifts. In his surprise, Deadeye doesn’t have the time to look away.

 

Intense, hickory irises meet his.

 

After less than a blink, they narrow, and Deadeye could swear that they flare _blue_.

 

“Who...are you?” His voice is rough, and Deadeye imagines that they’ve both nearly screamed themselves hoarse a dozen times over in this place.

 

Deadeye shrugs. “ ‘Nother prisoner, like you.”

 

A derisive scoff. “I can see that. I want _your_ _name_ , buffoon.”

 

Ah. There’s the kicker. Deadeye doesn’t remember his own name, let alone _who_ he was. He says as much. Dragon-man’s teeth bare in a frustrated, dare he say, _despairing_ snarl.

 

“Then you are of no use to me.” He huffs, curling onto his side, facing the wall. It's such a damnably immature move; Deadeye would be offended at the newcomer’s rudeness if he had the energy.

 

“Suppose if that’s gonna be yer attitude, you’re not all that useful to me, either.” Deadeye murmurs in return. It’s a lame comeback, and Dragon-man doesn’t react. “Asshole,” he mutters under his breath.

 

He slumps back to the corner, defeated, tucking his one arm under his head and resting his stump against his chest. He can feel the numbness of the injections seeping into his limbs and his mind again, too weak to fight, so he allows himself to drift into darkness.

 

A wayward thought as he falls asleep perturbs him. When the nightmares come, as expected, it won’t just be himself that he’s waking up with his own screaming.


	2. Red Deadeye and the Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a longer chapter than the last; the snark was fun to write. 
> 
> ps. this is all unbeta'd. Mistakes are mine.
> 
> I appreciate comments and kudos.

It’s not his screaming that wakes him, but the steady, echoing drip of condensation from the ceiling. He thanks the stars, ‘cause he can’t remember what deity he used to pray to. Deadeye sits up, glancing around for his new cellmate. The gloom and the silence are uninterrupted by another body; he’s alone, and he doesn’t know what to think about that. Instead of lingering on his solitude, he begins the game he has played with himself since he first forgot his own name:

He thinks about the things he remembers.

 

_Blistering sun on his face and the warm weight of a patterned, scarlet blanket (?) draped across his shoulders. There’s a hat on his head, wide-brimmed, and broken-in to the shape of his skull. He’s walking, his long legs eating up the distance between him and…_

 

The memory dissipates, as it has for the past few days? weeks? Months? He’s tried to recall it too many times. He tries again.

 

_There’s laughter, accompanied by the bubbling feeling of inebriation. He’s surrounded by warm, friendly faces. One is dark, with a beanie on their head and a broad hand that claps him on the back. Another has sharp, hawkish eyes, one with a tattoo curling beneath it. He knows, deep down, that they are family._

 

He sighs deeply as that memory fades as well. Frustrated, he makes another attempt.

 

 _His vision burns_ **_red_ ** _, and six shots ring out like cracks of thunder. Six targets fall almost simultaneously. The ancient-looking eye-tattoo face returns, her eyes sharp with evaluation._

 

 _“It is a powerful skill. I trust that you will use it wisely, and for what_ you _think is right.”_

 

His eye is _searing_ , and he desperately presses the heel of his hand against it in a futile endeavor to quell the pain. His vision swims an angry crimson everytime it does this, reacts to the memories he tries and fails to recall, reacts to the treatments Talon has been giving him. Every time, all movement in his line of sight slows, his reflexes sharpen, and his targets become clear. This is why Dr. O’Deorain covets him; _that_ is impossible to forget.

 

“Ow.” he mutters to himself. The burning in his iris eventually fades every time, but the initial stinging when he’s able to reopen his eye is uncomfortable. The dimness of the cell is, at least, kinder to his poor eye than sunlight would be. He thinks this just before the door slams open, flooding the room with fluorescent light.

 

“Fuck it all,” he swears.

 

This time neither of the guards tease him for his pain -- Patterson is usually gone on Thursdays, so Deadeye can occasionally keep track of the days of the week -- but instead, they dump dragon-tattoo unceremoniously on to the floor. Deadeye glimpses a bloodied brow and contused chest before the door slams shut, taking the light with it. He waits for his eyes to re-adjust -- he marvels that it never takes long -- before he’s able to observe more.

 

Deadeye winces when he can finally see; O’Deorain must’ve chosen the classic combo of fists and batons today, judging from the bruising across dragon-man’s ribs and split, bloodied lip and cheek. His breathing hitches with each breath, betraying cracked or broken ribs. Blood mats in the inky locks near his temple.

 

Deadeye knows from experience not to reach out and touch an unconscious soldier with previous service in an active combat zone. _A none-too-gentle hand, cuffing him across the back of the head, and a sharp muttering of ‘estupido’._ He doesn’t know how he came to the conclusion that Dragon is -- was -- a soldier, but there’s something about the way the man is built and the casual evaluation he had given Deadeye the day before that speaks volumes about a trained lethality. He doesn’t reach out, so he calls out instead.

 

“Uh...? Hullo?”

 

There’s no response, which is disconcerting; O’Deorain must be trying to break the newcomer in.

 

“Don’t cop out on me now. It’s not like I have anyone else to talk to.”

 

A groan, pained and weak. “ _What_ ...are you...babbling--” The words cut out with a hacking cough, and _damn_ just by the sound those are definitely cracked ribs.

 

“Easy.” Deadeye cautions, instinctively steadying Dragon with a hand on his bare back as the man struggles to shift onto his hands and knees. Something close to static -- but too sharp, and no crackle of light -- shoots up Deadeye’s arm at the touch. He draws his hand back before Dragon seems to notice.

 

The man glares up at Deadeye, his previously-razored gaze dulled with pain and fatigue. Deadeye shouldn’t be worried -- O’Deorain wouldn’t decide to kill one of her brainwashing projects, would she? -- but he can’t suppress a spike of concern.

 

“How’re you feelin’, pardner?”

 

Dragon scowls, nose scrunching with confusion. “Why do you care?” he hisses.

 

 _Bad then_ , Deadeye concludes. “Like I said before, it’s not like I got anybody else to talk to.”

 

The injured man huffs as he leans up on his elbows. “I do not wish to talk.”

 

“I got no problem with that, pal. You bein’ here just makes me look less batshit than when I was talkin’ to the walls.”

 

Those hickory eyes narrow again, this time in disgust. He doesn’t reply, but he does mutter something low in a biting foreign language that Deadeye vaguely recognizes.

 

“Talking shit in another language is the definition of rude.” Deadeye sasses. He’s finding that just having another person _in the vicinity_ is bringing out a part of him that he’d thought long suppressed.

 

Dragon stares at him, dumbstruck. His glare then sharpens viciously, to match the tone of his next words. “Would you rather I called you an _obnoxious moron_ in your mother tongue?”

 

“Ooh, pumpkin, that stings.” Deadeye feigns hurt, immensely pleased with himself that he’s managed to draw his new cellmate into an argument.

 

“But I suppose I cannot.” Deadeye’s a second away from protesting, about to say _you just did_ , when he sees a something glint in those fierce, brown eyes. Dragon continues, “For your mother tongue is a bastardization of modern English, and I shall not stoop so low.”

 

Deadeye laughs. He can’t help it; the quip is _funny_ , but it also relieves a smidgen of the weight in his chest that he hadn’t realized was there. He notices that Dragon is staring at him like he’s lost all sense, and it makes him laugh harder.

 

When he’s regained his composure, he grins at Dragon, broad and slow. “It’s called a _drawl_ , sweetheart. Some people find it charming.”

“I am not your _sweetheart_.” Dragon bites back. “And some people are idiots.” He shoots Deadeye a very pointed look, and he tries to look innocent.

 

“You must be thinking of yerself there, darlin’, cause you’ve been talking to me for a good few minutes now.” He pauses poignantly, and internally thrills when the Dragon’s nostrils flare. “Must be something you like enough to keep you talking.”

 

Dragon snorts derisively, stiffly turning himself to face away. “ _Insurmountable idiot_ ,” he mutters to the wall. Deadeye doesn’t bother to hide his grin, but he doesn’t push further conversation on the man.

 

They sit in silence for what feels like half a day, but from experience, Deadeye knows is maybe only an hour or two. Dragon has pulled his legs -- which Deadeye now notices are plated with some sort of armor or superficial prosthetic -- into a full lotus position beneath him, hands resting loosely on his knees in some sort of meditative pose. He’s forcing himself to breathe deep and evenly, which Deadeye figures must hurt like a bitch, but he admires the man’s tenacity.

 

Eventually, Deadeye breaks the silence.

 

“Y’know, we haven’t been formally introduced…” he leaves the words hanging, waiting to see if Dragon will respond. There are several beats of silence, and he’s coming to the conclusion that he’s being ignored when Dragon responds.

 

“I do not remember a name to give you.” The murmur is barely louder than a breath, but Deadeye hears it.  

 

Deadeye winces. “Yeah, me neither. But…” Again, he lets the words trail off, hoping that Dragon will choose to pick up the line of conversation again.

 

He is not disappointed.

 

“But what?”

 

“We could come up with new ones.”

 

A snort that has less derision and more amusement in its timbre this time. “I suppose you have an idea?”

 

Deadeye laughs. “Yup. Given the tattoos you’re sporting, and that temper to boot, I’m gonna call you Dragon.”

 

Dragon’s hair flips as he whips his head around to gape at Deadeye in clear indignation. Deadeye would almost call it ‘cute’ with the way he resembles his namesake, nostrils flaring and lips pulling taught against his teeth before he composes himself.

 

Surprisingly, Dragon accepts his new name without verbal challenge. Instead, his eyes glint in the same way they had before he’d slandered Deadeye’s way of speaking. “Shall I call you ‘Stumps’?”

 

“Bit on the nose, don’cha think?”

 

“Simple name for a simple man.”

 

“Ouch.” Deadeye shakes his head. “I was thinking somethin’ more like…” _the color of the blanket across his shoulders, the sunset across a desert, the pervading, seeking sights of his right eye._

 

_The blood that’s spattered across the pavement when the crimson haze leaves him._

 

“Red.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Call me Red.”

 

Dragon considers him closely for a long moment. Red -- _not Deadeye anymore; his mortal power doesn’t define him_ \-- holds Dragon’s gaze evenly. After a beat of silence, Dragon bows from the waist.

 

“ _Hajimemashite_.”

 

 _Nice to meet you,_ Red’s brain translates.

 

“Likewise, pardner.”


	3. No signal, no sign

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life happened, but I'm already working on Chapter 4, so it should be out soon. More notes at the end.

Fareeha “Pharah” Amari hears her Overwatch comm beep as she’s narrowing her eyes at a particularly challenging firearms simulation. Another few seconds pass as she’s firing rounds, the comm beeping again, prompting her attention to it. The screen is lit up with a picture of Winston, glasses askew and sleepy-eyed, with peanut butter smeared across his nose. She smothers a laugh, as she does every time she sees the photo, and continues her exercises on the range. _Winston can wait a few more minutes_.

 

The comm beeps once more, the ascending line of electronic chimes seemingly more persistent. Fareeha shoots a glare at it -- _the Amari glare has cowed members of Overwatch since its founding_ \-- but the comm continues to sound.

 

Sighing, Fareeha lowers her rifle. “Athena. End simulation.”

 

“ _Acknowledged, Agent Pharah._ ”

 

The range and its holographic targets dim, and Fareeha reaches for her comm. Winston’s features stare back at her.

 

Huffing, she answers it.

 

“This is Pharah.”

 

“ _Hi, Fareeha._ ”

 

“Hi, Winston. What do you need?”

 

There’s some shuffling in the background. Fareeha guesses that he’s in the lab again, sorting through personal equipment and supply requests. A deep sigh then, the first sign that maybe something more complicated than running a clandestine base for a group of vigilantes is weighing on his mind.

 

“What’s wrong?” she inquires.

 

Winston seems to hesitate over the open line, caught out in his worry. He sighs again before he answers.

 

“ _Have you heard from Jesse?_ ”

 

The question startles her; in the contained turmoil and secrecy of the recall, she hadn’t thought about contacting her friend -- her brother -- certain that he would arrive shortly after she had. A pang of guilt and worry stutters her reply.

 

“No.”

 

“ _Nothing?_ ”

 

“Not recently. He sent me something just after the recall went out.”

 

“ _May I know what it said?_ ”

 

Typical Winston: polite almost to the point of impeding himself. Fareeha has a latent apprehension that it will get him into trouble if and when they really attempt to run missions with this newly assembled team. Knowing this, she was already pulling the message up before he asked.

 

_Encrypted message_

_Sender: unknown_

 

_Reeha,_

 

_I assume you got the recall. Me too. I’m accepting._

 

_Hope to see you soon, hermanita._

 

_JM_

 

Fareeha reads it verbatim to Winston, who sighs heavily when she’s finished.

 

“ _There’s been no word from him other than his affirmative reply to the recall, and that message._ ”

 

Fareeha _knows_ Jesse. He’s smarter than people take him for, and he likes it that way. It allows him to blend in, disappear in plain sight. A few of the stories he’d told her about Blackwatch involved going dark for a week or more to avoid scrutiny; hell, he’d been radio silent for most of the time since Switzerland, only sending her heavily encrypted, out-of-the-blue messages.

 

“Maybe he got sidetracked. You know he’s like a bloodhound sometimes if he thinks he can help a situation.”

 

“ _I had that thought as well, but...I did a facial recognition scan through all the surveillance systems in areas he would’ve passed through to get here. There’s nothing, Fareeha. No trace of him or any mention of the aliases I have on file_.”

 

Fareeha forcibly evens her breathing. “He’s gone to ground before.”

 

“ _I know_. _But don’t you think he would have contacted you by now?_ ”

 

She’s not certain, and that worries her more, inexplicably. “Did his response give any indication that he was in trouble?”

 

“ _No. It’s the automated affirmative response, with no secondary message attached._ ”

 

“Didn’t he hijack that train a few months ago?” Fareeha asks, even as she’s clearing up her equipment, locking down the training area and turning towards Winston’s lab. This is a conversation she wants to have face-to-face to make it clear to her friend that if her brother is missing, _she will go after him_ , and she’ll ask for Overwatch’s help; Petras Act be damned.

 

“ _In an effort to derail a Talon operation._ ” Winston offers, almost sheepishly. “ _I did some cross-referencing after it was on the news_ . _I wanted to ask McCree himself when he got here...but obviously, that hasn’t happened_.”

 

Fareeha wants to swear at the grim resignation in the standing commander’s tone, the death’s-head acceptance that has no place in a conversation about _Jesse McCree_.

 

“Yet, Winston. He hasn’t arrived _yet_.”

 

“ _I want to be optimistic too, Fareeha, but there’s something else…_ ”

 

She cuts him off. “Give me two minutes, and I’ll be in your lab to discuss it.” She hangs up the comm with more vehemence than she should. Her mother would tell her to breathe if she were here.

 

Fareeha laughs to herself. Her mother would’ve been cleaning and loading her sniper rifle at this point, were she still alive. She had rivaled Commander Reyes in terms of protectiveness, especially when it came to Jesse.

 

Fareeha briskly rounds the corner that connects the training hub hallway to the main set of offices and laboratories, her boots echoing a little in the hall. Angela’s customized medical wing is at the far end, and Winston’s lab is the second-largest room just before it. The door doesn’t slide open at her approach.

 

“Athena,” she calls.

“ _Yes, Agent Pharah_.”

 

“Is Winston in his lab?”

 

“ _Yes. He is currently meeting with Agent Shimada._ ”

 

Genji? Fareeha thinks. She wasn’t aware that he had returned from Nepal.

 

“Please let Winston know that I’m coming in.”

 

“ _Acknowledged, Agent Pharah._ ”

 

The door slides open this time, and she steps over the threshold. It’s dim, the screens the only light, and she can make out Winston’s hulking form and the green glow of Genji’s armor.

 

Winston starts at the flood of light from the hallway, the glare on his glasses obscuring his eyes as he sees her. He sputters, “Fareeha!”

 

“Sorry, big guy.” She’s not really, as she steps up to the platform where Winston occupies his tire and Genji stands beside him. Fareeha nods hello to Genji.

 

“We need to discuss McCree’s disappearance.” she begins.

 

Genji shifts, surprise slackening the line of his shoulders. “ _McCree’s_ disappearance?”

 

A pointed cough from Winston re-centers their attention, and he uses their pause to pull up a few images on his computer; Jesse’s most recent profile photo -- hat, serape, and cigarillo present -- slots into space beside the image that was already there. The second photo is of lesser quality, a little blurry, but the sharp, regal features of the dark-haired man it depicts are clearly identifiable. As Fareeha looks a little closer, she notices the unidentified subject’s eyes. They are fiercely intent on something in the foreground, out of sight of the camera, nearly amber in the light.

 

Fareeha recognizes the implacable, unwavering glint in that gaze; the last time she saw it was a photo of her mother in-action.

 

Genji seems to sense her scrutiny. “Hanzo Shimada, disgraced heir to the Shimada-gumi. He’s been working internationally as an assassin since he left.” He pauses, and Fareeha can’t tell if it’s because he’s trying to find words to explain or if he is steeling himself for her reaction. “He’s my brother.”

 

 _Brother_. The very one who inflicted the injuries to make it necessary for Genji to have his life-sustaining exoskeleton, the same one who betrayed him on an order from the clan’s elders. Fareeha remembers how openly hostile Genji had been during the first few years she saw him interact with Overwatch and Blackwatch agents alike.

 

“Are we going after him?” Fareeha asks.

 

Genji shifts again, a little guilty this time. “Not exactly.”

 

“How ‘not exactly’?” She parrots indignantly back.

 

“Two and a half months ago, Genji made contact with his brother in Hanamura to extend an offer of recruitment.” Winston elaborates. He forestalls her outraged interjection with a raised hand. “Hanzo no longer has ties to the Shimada-gumi, and has returned every year to honor Genji’s ‘passing’. I do not need to tell you that we need skilled operatives, Agent Pharah, and Hanzo was a good candidate.”

 

“On what earth?--” Pharah demands.

 

“Genji forgave his brother, and Hanzo has been attempting to redeem himself ever since. In fact, It was Genji’s idea to contact him.”

 

Anger and frustration spikes within Fareeha again, and she wishes Jesse were here to explain Genji’s point of view. He’s been close to the ninja since they served together in Blackwatch, would understand why the younger man wants to bring his fratricidal brother into this, why he deserves a chance at _redemption_.

 

Jesse understands redemption better than anyone Fareeha has ever met.

 

“We...talked,” Genji adds, in the face of her silent rage. “He seemed to be considering my offer. However, he should have arrived here weeks ago.”

 

“Maybe he didn’t accept.”

 

Genji lifts a shoulder. “I am disinclined to think so, given that I went back to where I knew he was staying to attempt to confirm his decision and found _this_.”

 

Winston pulls up more photos, all of the various angles of a ransacked apartment. There’s blood streaked across one wall, other epicenters of spatter on the floor, and the window is shattered. A broken longbow is centered in the frame of one picture, ornate carvings of dragons twining across the pieces.

 

“You think he was kidnapped,” Fareeha concludes.

 

“Yes. Given that McCree is also missing, I am more than sure.”

 

Fareeha huffs. “He might have gone to ground.”

 

“With the recall activated? No. McCree would get here as quickly as possible; the risk is lower than remaining in the open, cut off from Overwatch’s resources.” Genji reasons.

 

Fareeha opens her mouth to contest Genji’s point but finds she can’t think of a counter-argument. She doesn’t want to admit it, but Genji knows the ins-and-outs of Jesse’s tactical mind better than anyone except Gabriel Reyes, and Fareeha doesn’t think the Blackwatch Commander’s gravestone will give her any answers. She sighs heavily.

 

“I don’t know where to start looking.”

 

Genji and Winston exchange a look, and Winston adjusts his glasses. “I did some preliminary digging and found that recent Shimada-gumi intelligence reports were following Hanzo’s movements -- as best as they were able -- and sent a high-ranking representative to speak with him. I’m assuming they were attempting to bring him back into the fold. Given that the rep in question might be the last person Hanzo spoke to, he or she might have relevant information.” He taps out a few commands, and a new picture floats up -- this one from a Tokyo PD file.

 

Genji murmurs something unflattering in Japanese. “Jun’ichi.”

 

“You know him?”

 

“He was a child when I attempted to leave the clan. Now he’s obviously taken up his ancestors’ path, despite how weak the Shimada have become.” Genji’s head dips. “But on his own, Jun’ichi could not summon the resources to effectively capture Hanzo.”

 

“He partnered up?”

 

Winston makes a low, perturbed noise. “Of all the yakuza clans, the Shimada still have the most influence over Japan, correct?”

 

“They are a grass snake compared to the serpent they were, but yes.”

 

Winston turns once more to his console, pulling up government intelligence reports and terrorist threat briefings. His tone is grim when he speaks again. “Talon has been looking to gain influence in that region.”

 

Alarm chokes the space between them. Widowmaker’s face, deathly blue, swims to the forefront of Fareeha’s mind.

 

“If they observed Hanzo meeting with Jun’ichi, they might have thought he was involved in the clan again,” Winston concludes.

 

“And Jesse foiled their attempt to steal that piece of cargo on the Houston train.”

 

“Talon could want both of them for their skills regardless. Amelie was only a diplomatic official’s wife, and look what they turned her into.”

 

The silence stretches uncomfortably for a long moment.

 

“Our best lead is this Jun’ichi?”

 

Genji nods.

 

There are so many possibilities, but Fareeha doesn’t care. She just wants to get Jesse back.

 

“Two-person op, get in, get whatever info we can from Jun’ichi, get out?” She addresses the question to Winston, who clears his throat.

 

“Athena and I will work on getting a location for Jun’ichi-san. It should take us no more than a few hours.”

 

Fareeha throws him a two-fingered salute. “That’ll give me and Genji time to prep.”

 

“Good. Athena?”

 

“ _Report to the transport bay in t-minus two hours and fifteen minutes, Agents Pharah, Genji, and Tracer_.” The AI intones.

 

Genji looks at her then, placing a gentle, cool hand on her shoulder. “We will find them, Fareeha.”

 

She grits her teeth, thinking of Jesse’s warm smile. “Let’s hope so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify, if this chapter didn't make it clear.
> 
> Post the "Dragons" animated short, Hanzo gets kidnapped. McCree was snatched somewhere between Houston and Gibraltar (I'm imagining some sort of East coast confrontation). Both have been somewhat brainwashed before they were tossed into the same cell. 
> 
> I'm amazed and immensely grateful for the response that this fic (FIRST ONE EVAAA) is receiving. My thanks to bluandorange for advocating for it, and for all of you who have commented and left kudos. Also to those of you that haven't -- I was a silent reader for a long time, and I know how difficult it is sometimes to put yourself out there to compliment a writer you admire. 
> 
> Feel free to message me on Tumblr with thoughts or suggestions! @nonchalantdanger
> 
> Best,
> 
> Non Da.


	4. Little One and the Crimson Skull

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for over 100 kudos and all your comments!!! They make my day!

It is when his mind has drifted into the grey space between unconsciousness and wakeful clarity that they make themselves known to him. Like the shadow of storm clouds, their presence is simultaneously foreboding and reassuring as they twist and twine around one another, their vast, serpentine bodies occasionally billowing air past his arm or ear.

 

Hayate speaks to him, voice like the rumble of thunder. “ _Hello, little one_.”

 

He snorts at the nickname; he has known his guardians since he was a child, but in their otherworldly and immortal power, they have not cared to correct the endearment as he has grown.

 

Masaru’s chuckle at his huff of fond exasperation is closer to the sound of an ocean swell grating against the shore, smoother and softer than their brother’s hefty timbre. Dragon smiles a little, but it fades just as quickly. The chill of his body shakes through him, persistent even in this nether-realm.

 

Both spirits still in their eternal dance, luminous eyes boring into him. He looks away.

 

“ _You are weakening_.”

 

He knows this. With every reconditioning session, he remembers less of who he used to be, his strength waining to Dr. O’Deorain’s ministrations more and more. His psyche is shedding like a snake until there is nothing left but the brutally efficient, indomitable killer that Talon wants him to be. If not for Hayate and Masaru, he would have given in a long time ago. He may yet do so.

 

“ _You MUST not_ .” Hayate roars, sensing his thoughts, and was the spirit outside of this ethereal space, Dragon knows that their voice would nigh split the heavens. “ _You are a dragon on earth, our master. You WILL NOT submit to these mongrels_.”

 

“I do not know if escape is an option.”

 

“ _You must try._ ” Masaru urges, again gentler than their brother.

 

Again, he has known this for some time, but new challenges have arisen. Being moved to a new facility and placed with a _cellmate_ of all damnable things are obstacles that will cost him valuable time; it will take weeks for him to memorize guard rotations and observe security measures, and that is only if he is even capable; the last time they brought him back to the cell, he could barely keep himself conscious. He was delirious with agony for hours afterward. “Trying is not an option; it will take weeks, maybe months, on my own. If I do not succeed the first time, I may not have another chance.”

 

Masaru tilts their massive, horned head at him. “ _What about this new one? ‘Red’ as he calls himself? Could he not prove useful to further your goal?”_

 

Dragon snorts with disbelief. “You cannot expect me to trust him.”

 

The spirits snort back at him. Hayate rumbles conspiratorially, “ _You do not have to;_ **_use_ ** _him. Once you are free, you may part ways...or kill him._ ”

 

Masaru continues, tail twitching impishly “ _Or not, given that he has caught your attention._ ”

 

Dragon feels his ears flush, and he wills it to subside. “He is a nuisance.”

 

“ _I believe he is trying to be friendly._ ”

 

Dragon clicks his tongue at Masaru’s forwardness, but the spirit pays his disapproval no heed, twisting languidly through the air.

 

“He may be a planted agent.”

 

“ _He is not_ .” They say, in formidable unison, and Dragon feels the air between them _crackle_. The sensation fades before they speak again.

 

“ _There is something about him that is inherently good. Not of Talon’s brood._ ” Masaru murmurs. Hayate adds, “ _A deceitful face, maybe, but not his soul._ ”

 

“ _He will not betray you_.”

 

They say it with the certainty of those who live on another plane of reality and have the clairvoyance that accompanies that existence. Dragon is not so fortunate, but he recognizes their advice — if cryptically given — when he hears it. Resignedly, he nods assent.

 

“I will try.” He hesitates, and the chill that is beginning to permeate his body intensifies. Quietly, he adds, “I...am afraid I will not be able to resist for much longer.”

 

The draconic spirits exchange a heavy glance, descending from their floating weave to coil around him. Their scales are blessedly warm and solid to his touch. Hayate’s eyes crackle with lightning and Masaru’s silky golden mane smells of cherry blossoms. He lets them take his weight, allows the darkness to encroach, and his mind to ease.

 

“ _We are with you, little one._ ”

 

____________________________________________________________________

  


Dragon awakens in a blink, sitting up, eyes adjusted to the dimness of the cell’s confines. He is alone, the gunslinger taken while he was sleeping.

 

 _Red_ . _His name is Red_.

 

Despite Dragon’s unwillingness to confront his opinions of the man with his guardian spirits -- _incorrigible beasts, really_ \-- he has to admit that he finds his cellmate intriguing. Even with the breadth of his body and his lack of an arm, he’d moved in the confines of their cell with a casual grace that belied a trained precision, an instinctive bodily awareness that very few possess without a background in some sort of military or combat training. He recalls the set of the man’s face when he had introduced himself, the intentness of his gaze, striking within the unkempt, accumulated mess of his hair and beard. He had seen cunning behind the discordant warmth in Red’s eyes, a quiet, contemplative kind of wiliness that has stayed present in Dragon’s mind since their exchange. In the same moment, Dragon had watched Red evaluate him in turn, and knows the other man saw the same characteristics.

 

But why is he here? In all his brash, drawling charm Red does not seem to personify a Talon operative. Undoubtedly, they want him for a unique skill, in the same way that they desire Dragon for his guardians; if the gunslinger has anything comparable in power to Hayate and Masaru, Talon could have two homicidally inclined puppets readily available to wreak havoc. Possibly within the span of a few months, if Dragon does not take action. If he escapes on his own, Talon will have _one_.

 

He would rather they have none at all.

 

Taking a deep breath, Dragon resolves to... observe Red. If he can understand why Talon wants him as an operative, he can intuit the man’s motives, maybe formulate a plan of how he could _convince_ him to aid in an escape. If he can get Red to listen seriously for half a second; if he is coherent enough to even understand.

 

Dragon exhales heavily through his nostrils. There are too many _damn_ variables. He does not know where to begin to tackle them.

 

He does not have time to wonder about the instability of his plans, suddenly, as he hears the cell block door slide open with a _hiss_.

 

He retreats into the back corner of the cell as the boot steps grow closer, a precaution that had served him well in his last prison, where the guards were just as likely to enter the cell with fists and boots swinging as not. On this occasion, the door opens without warning or ceremony and the two men drop Red’s limp frame as soon as they are across the threshold. They turn without a word, and the door closes once more.

 

It becomes immediately apparent that Red is not himself.

 

He’s shaking. Violently shaking, hands clenched into fists beneath him and knees pulled up to his chest. Ragged gasps tear from his throat, his lungs unable to catch up to the demands of his body. He tries to rise to his hands and knees but his limbs tremble too much to hold any strength.

 

Dragon hesitates.

 

 _The gentle, thickly accented voice, cutting through the haze of agony: “Don’t cop out on me now_.”

 

_Hayate and Masaru’s fervent, otherworldly knowledge. “He will not betray you.”_

 

Dragon breathes. Only then does he act.

 

“Gunslinger.” He says. The bigger man shudders, still caught in the throes of whatever psychotropic state Dr. Moira’s experiments have brought on. Dragon tries again, moving closer with the utmost caution, dragging the metal of his feet across the concrete floor to warn Red of his approach.

 

“ _Red_.” Dragon calls again, louder. Red starts at the name, this time, another tremor cascading across his curled back. He rolls to his side, his hand slipping over his face and pressing against his right eye. The other flutters open with difficulty, clearly sensitive to the light.

 

Dragon holds up both hands in a calming gesture. “You know me.”

 

Red huffs, features scrunching with pain as he pushes himself upright. He is studiously keeping his right eye closed, but the slivered gaze of the other is clear with relief. “Yeah...yeah, darlin’, I do.”

 

Dragon sighs, releasing a tension he hadn’t realized had built. “Are you hurt?”

 

“Nah, just a little disoriented s’all. Nothin’...to worry over.”

 

“Your eye —?”

 

Red starts again at the mention of it, pulling his hand down from his face as if the prolonged contact had burned it. “It’s nothin’.” He murmurs, even though his eye remains closed. He turns a fraction away from Dragon, like a wounded animal protecting its bad side.

 

Dragon shuffles closer. He has no good reason to, but he rationalizes by thinking of the conversation with his spirit guardians; they were right when they reasoned that he could prove useful, but that use would decrease drastically if he were injured when they attempt to make their move. Dragon must be certain. Despite all the instincts that _scream_ at him not to reach out, he does. His wrist is caught by Red’s one hand just before he makes contact, quick as a biting snake.

 

In retrospect, Dragon should have considered just how badly he might react to a hostile touch after months of imprisonment.

 

He detaches from conscious thought for a moment, vaguely aware of his body moving without his command. The twist that frees him from Red’s grip is purely instinctual, as is the striking forearm that pins Red by his throat to the wall. Red replies with a surprisingly solid right hook and a vice grip on Dragon’s jugular that balances their hold on each other.

 

During the course of the exchange, Red’s right eye had opened outside of Dragon’s notice. The white is inflamed and irritated almost to being bloodshot; the pupil is constricted, unnaturally so given the drugs and the dimness. As their gazes meet across the space Dragon feels his guardians writhe to meet the hair-raising energy radiating from the man.

 

In the center of his eye, set within the caramel iris and ebony pupil like a small, glittering garnet, glows a skull.

 

Dragon gasps an oath of astonishment, and the guttural words seem to stir Red from his trance. The grip on Dragon’s throat releases and he stumbles back to the opposite wall.

 

Winded and wary, they regard each other, the meager space between them charged with adrenaline and poorly reigned emotion that reverberates from within their fractured anamneses.

 

It is Red who breaks the silence. “ _Shit_.”

 

Dragon blinks at the earnest anguish in Red’s voice, even as the man continues. “I get...spacey sometimes when _she_ tries to get it to work.”

 

It is not an apology, but as an explanation, it is close. Dragon swallows thickly, his throat suddenly dry as a desert, thoughts stuck on the image of Dr. O’Deorain causing Red enough pain to make his eye sear crimson. His words stumble because of it. “She...did this to you?”

 

Red shakes his head. “No. This...is what she wants.” He winces as he rubs his eye again. “It’s what Talon wants.”

 

Dragon refuses to let his pique of interest show; the timing of this revelatory information is suspiciously expedient, or Red is too trusting, but the willing admission of his usefulness to Talon stirs a deep-seeded paranoia within Dragon. While the conviction of his guardians’ words cannot — _should not_ — be ignored, neither can he convince himself to trust his cellmate because his celestial familiars say so.

 

Red chuckles self-deprecatingly, interrupting Dragon’s inner tumult. “Too stubborn to let ‘em have it, though. Rather die than be a lapdog for these fuckers.”

 

Dragon snorts and Red’s gaze returns to him. “That may yet be the choice you must make.”

 

His words are harsher than he means them to be, and Red’s warm gaze lowers from the pain of them. He rubs the column of his throat absently, massaging the inflamed stripe of skin where Dragon’s forearm had pressed. “I know,” he rasps.

 

Dragon’s remorse over casting them into silence once again is bitter against the back of his throat. “It was not my intention to harm you.” He murmurs after the quiet becomes too much, an unspoken apology for both his words and his earlier blows.

 

Red shrugs, a silent _all is forgiven_ , but the lines at the corners of his eyes deepen with something like fondness. Dragon internally scoffs at the thought; they have known each other for only a few days — how can this _fool_ of a man be fond of him? He is irked further by the undeniable note of amusement in the man’s tone.  
  
“Nothin’ for you to be sorry about, honeybee. I should be the one apologizin’, given that I didn’t warn you about…” he makes a general motion towards his eye, where the skull has faded away as he’s been blinking. “My condition.”  
  
Dragon shrugs. Red seems to understand his attempt to communicate, but he sags against the wall, clearly exhausted by the reconditioning session and their little spat. Dragon is familiar with the bone-deep fatigue that summoning his guardians — or resisting the urge to summon them, as it has been while under Dr. O’Deorain’s instruments — can cause.

 

“It does this...every time?” Dragon asks.  
  
“No.” Red murmurs. “Just when...the memories get...intense.”  
  
That gets Dragon’s attention. He has not had an instance where a reconditioning session has triggered a memory during the process. It is only when he has been returned to the cell that night terrors with faces he cannot banish haunt him. Occasionally, softer memories effuse his dreams, but that has not happened recently.  
  
“You remember…?”  
  
Red looks up, no doubt because of the hopeful note that Dragon could not hide. His expression is soft like he’s trying to reassure a feral animal. “Yeah...random bits. Some voices. A few faces and names that don’t match.” He lifts one shoulder, an acknowledgment. “It’s not much, but it helps when the pain gets bad. How about you? Remember much?”  
  
Dragon doesn’t respond, turning to press his tattooed shoulder against the far wall, despair clawing its way through his chest. His silence seems to be answer enough for the bigger man. Out of the corner of his eye, Dragon sees sympathy further soften Red’s rugged features, and something inside Dragon bristles against the oncoming pity.  
  
Instead, Red surprises him. “I play a lil’ game with myself, sometimes, when my head gets fuzzy.”  
  
Dragon cuts a sidelong glance at him. Red’s mouth curls and the lines in his face crease a little more.  
  
“I try to find a memory — any one — and remember it as clearly as I can. When I start stumblin’ into bits that are gone, or too jumbled to correct, I make up details that could fit. Make myself into the person I think I would be...y’know?”  
  
When Dragon remains silent, stewing in his own trauma, Red continues. “I got one that came back to me recently that I think you would like.” He clears his throat and begins to speak slowly, as if he wants Dragon to savor it as much as he does.

 

“I was working at a restaurant— don’t know where or when— but I was wearin’ one a those fancy vests and a pair of shoes that were shiny as hell. Had my tray, prolly with champagne but that bit’s not important, and I had to talk to this lady and her husband. She was nice an’ all, but her husband was a real looker. Tall, dark-haired, had this thin mustache that kinda put me off but...I remember that I _had_ to talk to ‘im. So I did. ‘Cept — and this is the part I remember for certain:” Red is abruptly grinning, and Dragon feels something tug in his sternum at the sight of it.

 

“He was speaking in a language I didn’t know! Was somethin’ like _Scu-see. Vino, Sig-nor-ey_?”

 

Dragon feels himself flush with sympathetic embarrassment at the horribly mispronounced and accented words that tumble out of Red’s mouth. “That is _atrocious_. You cannot expect me to believe any self-respecting Italian spoke to you if you sounded like that.”

 

A beat of shocked silence stretches between them, equally split between Dragon’s astonishment at his sudden recollection and Red’s surprise over the fact that he shared it.

 

Red resumes with a poorly hidden laugh. “My _Eye-tal-yan_ is just fine, thanks. Anyways, this guy seemed to be makin’ eyes at me, if you know what I mean. And he makes some sort of lewd comment, and I guess I was supposed to distract him? Cause I dumped a glass of champagne on his pretty, coiffed head.” Red chuckles at the incredulous face Dragon makes, “I’m pretty sure I got fired for that. Can’t quite remember tho’.”

 

Dragon snuffs a snort of amusement, but Red sees it cross his face.

 

“A’ight. I told you mine, now you gotta tell me one ‘a yours.”

 

Dragon squints at Red. “I do not recall making that bargain.”

 

“Aw, c’mon sweetheart! Jus’ one. That’s all I’m asking.”

 

Dragon squints sidelong, and that earns him a hopeful little smile and an encouraging gesture.

 

“I do not...” Dragon begins, but Red cuts him off.

 

“I get that talkin’ about your past in front of a stranger ain’t ideal, but...it helps, is’all.” Red shrugs, “I don’t make a habit of judging people. I guess I can’t now, given that I don’t even know what I’ve done myself.”

 

His honesty is staggering, and Dragon is desperate enough to remember _anything_ that he’s not unwilling to try.

 

He takes a deep breath.

 

“I was walking…” he begins softly, “It was somewhere cold, a city blanketed in snow, but there were lights everywhere.”

 

“Holidays, then?” Red asks. Dragon shoots him a look, and the gunslinger swipes two pinched fingers across his lips. _Sealed._

 

“There was a window that I stopped at...it was a bakery of some kind. The cake I saw was white, with strawberries crowning the top. A boy and his mother bought it a few moments later.” The warmly-tinged mental images fade as Dragon struggles to recall any more of the memory, sighing with frustration. However, when he looks up, Red’s expression is warm and inviting.

 

“You like cake. I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

“I did not say—.”

 

“Didn’t have to, honeybee. I know the look of a man with a sweet tooth.”

 

Dragon scoffs. “And why do you care?”

 

“Cause whenever we get outta here, I’m gonna treat you.”

 

“ _If_ we get out.”

 

“Are you gonna tell me a bald-faced lie and say you _haven’t_ thought of escaping?”

 

Dragon is silent. Red makes a gesture that reads _I thought so_.

 

“So - what do you say?”

 

An incredulous noise. “To _what_?”

 

“To escapin’.”

 

“You are suggesting we work together?”

 

The wily light in Red’s eyes seems to flash scarlet for a blink. “I’m certainly suggestin’ somethin’. And it ain’t takin’ you out for the evenin’, even pretty as you are.”

 

Dragon allows a snarl at the edge of his words to hide the relief that threatens his composure. “Do not presume I want your help, gunslinger.”

 

“Nah. I just know you _need_ it. And I know I need yours.” His salacious smile drops in a heartbeat. “We won’t make it out alive playin’ lone wolf.”

 

The spirit guardians curl, insufferably smug, low against Dragon’s belly. He ignores them, holding Red’s coyote-gaze. He sees apprehension twitch across the other’s features, breath falling shallowly as he waits for Dragon to decide.

 

Dragon does not plan to keep him in limbo past the initial few moments, satisfying his spiteful humor, but his next inhale draws short as the cell block door hisses open again. The march of boots down the hall is quicker, this time, and he is nearly too slow to articulate the words.

 

“Double cross me, and I will not hesitate to kill you.” Dragon bites out, part hiss part whisper. Red’s half-smile returns for a moment, broader with relief and exhilaration, but the door to their cell opens before Dragon can see it reach full-bloom.

  
Dragon holds Red’s gaze as his limbs are seized and he is dragged from the room. He cannot mistake the glint in those amber eyes as anything other than _resolve_ , but he does not think he imagines the skull that manifests within the center of the right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a while; I was trying to find the tone for Dragon that felt right, and I still don't know if I quite got there. 
> 
> Kudos to those who recognize the tidbits from the game that I'm easter-egging in there. 
> 
> Have a great night y'all. I'm going to sleep.


End file.
